She bangs the drums

The woman let her attention on her surroundings lapse a little, her finely carved head tilting skyward. Soft, wispy clouds shaded with purple and lit from behind with amber hung high above in the exquisite mass of colours like some strange, bruised fruit. A gentle breeze tugged at the wavy strands of black-ticked gold at Larch's ruff, teasing them with invisible digits. The pool of springwater returned to its placid state as Larch's mind wandered up, up into the sky. She wasn't usually one for daydreaming, but she wasn't one for letting things go to waste, either, and this morning had to be taken in; absorbed, as if it could instil yet more life and colour in the warrior.

The breeze which lifted the wispy ends of her slightly tangled fur brought with it a scent which made Larch able to ignore even the riot of colour in the heavens: food, fresh and warm, the blood not entirely drained. Larch's head turned steadily, calmly, towards the source of the scent, and recognition ignited in her eyes. This tawny-furred femme was a fellow Warrior, Larch knew, but it didn't occur to her that someone might be bringing her a meal. It had been two long years of scavenging and scrounging for meat, using tooth and claw and wiles to procure a meal – far too long for the hazel-eyed fighter to remember the last time she had eaten without a chase, be it in pursuit of prey or others in pursuit of her.

Larch's sharp-boned head tilted to one side, wood-and-leaf eyes flicking over her shoulder from the hare to the one who carried it. After a long moment of focusing on the prospect of free food, Larch turned her body to face her packmate. “Nice catch you've got there.” It was a statement, but her gaze was questioning. She hadn't made many friendly introductions in the past couple of years – at least, not genuine ones – and her etiquette was rusty, but she inclined her head, bending into a stiff bow and peering up through her lashes. “I'm Larch.”